DESPITE MY FAILUREto speak to Laura, despite the sharp ache of missing my father, my spirits rise as I drive that last mile to Summerbourne—through the village and out the other side, down the winding lane, cruising between the hedges where we picked blackberries as children, past the flint cottages with their windows propped open, swinging right onto the driveway. Apart from the three years I spent living in shared student houses in Liverpool, Summerbourne is the only home I’ve ever known.
My stomach growls, but I stay in the car for a minute more, contemplating the familiar yellow bricks in front of me, my gaze skimming over the peeling paint on the windowsills and the nettles in the front beds. Danny and I were the first children to be born in the summer months here for several generations, and despite the Summerbourne surname having been lost via female inheritance many years ago, we grew up proud of beingcalled “the Summerbourne summerborns.” It made up for the less friendly nicknames anyway.
As well as Summerbourne, my grandmother Vera inherited a smart London house called Winterbourne—apparently renamed as such to amuse a Summerbourne ancestor. When Vera decided a few years ago that she’d prefer the amenities of a luxury city apartment, she gave Winterbourne to Edwin, making the announcement on his twenty-fifth birthday. It’s perfect for him—close to his work in Canary Wharf—and he’s always made it clear that Danny and I can stay there whenever we want, even gave us our own keys.
But the question of Summerbourne’s fate festers inside me like an abscess: I try to wall it off and ignore it, but at moments of weakness it swells and erupts and gnaws away at me. Last month, as Danny and I approached our twenty-fifth birthday, I wondered whether Vera was considering giving the house to one of us, or both of us. How could it be done fairly? And then Dad died the day before we turned twenty-five, and I haven’t given it another thought until now, mulling it over here on the drive.
I’m the one who still lives here, and I’m the one who dreams of always living here. I can picture myself growing old at Summerbourne, and although I used to dream of falling in love and sharing it with someone else, I’m perfectly resigned now to living here by myself. Edwin has Winterbourne, Vera has her shiny new city apartment, Dad had his own flat in London when he was alive. Danny works abroad a lot and shows no sign of wanting to settle anywhere. I’m the one who still lives here; I’m the one who loves this house the most.
I fix my eyes firmly on the round door knocker as I leave my car, determined not to glance toward the patch of gravel in front of the garages where last month they had to hose Dad’s blood away.
The air inside the house is even warmer than outside, and I fling open windows and back doors. Edwin left food in the fridge for me, and I reheat a bowl of pasta and carry it out to the patio. The lawn is an uneven patchwork of yellow and brown, parched and dejected. The gardening company that Vera hired after Michael retired a few years ago has never come close to re-creating the lush green velvet that Michael achieved seemingly effortlessly.
My phone vibrates with a text from Edwin:How’s your day been?
I consider ringing him, but I can’t face confessing that I tracked down his old au pair today, that I tricked her and followed her, and then lost her. I picture Laura’s expression as she looked up and down the street, her irritation sliding into unease.
Fine, I text back.Tired. Going to bed.
The sky is still light, and I prowl into the kitchen for a beer, deciding instead on a hot chocolate in the hope the warm milk might make me sleepy. I reach for a mug from the shelf, grab the powder from the cupboard, pluck a spoon from the drawer—all without having to really look. Nothing has changed in this kitchen since I used to do this as a child, even as far back as the days when I needed to stand on a chair to reach the mugs and was obliged to ask Edwin or Joel or one of the nannies to heat my milk in the microwave.
I start to carry my hot chocolate toward the day nursery, old childhood habits resurfacing, but then I shake my head and turn instead to the sitting room. A faint breeze from the open window stirs the curtains as I walk in.
On a whim, I send a text to Vera:Hi Gran, Do you fancy coming down to Summerbourne tomorrow? I could pick you up from the station. I have one of Edwin’s quiches in the fridge. Love, Seph x
Surely, Vera must have raced over here that day when sheheard Danny and I had been born, excited to see her new grandchildren? Perhaps, now that Dad’s gone, she will agree to share some more details of that day with me. Perhaps she can explain why one of us was missing from the photo, and what happened to drive our mother to take her own life.
I wonder about Laura—where she lives, what she’s doing right now. I’m torn between frustration at her for evading me today and a reluctant sympathy after seeing how carelessly the hook-nosed man and her own mother gave up her details. What sort of a life has she had, with people like that as family? I rub my temples. Maybe right now Laura is immersed in the distractions of her own busy home: overseeing homework, cooking with teenagers, opening a bottle of wine with her husband. I chew my lip. Or perhaps she’s worrying about hoax deliveries and stalkers. I turn on the television in an attempt to focus on something else, but the phrase “poor little orphan” bursts out, and I hit the off button savagely, hurling the remote control across the sofa.
And then my phone vibrates with a reply from Vera:Love to, darling. Pick me up at 12.I carry my hot chocolate up to my bedside table, where it grows a slimy skin during the night.
•••
THE FOLLOWING DAYI keep the conversation light all through lunch, until Vera and I have carried our tea out to the patio, hoping for a breeze to relieve the relentless heat. We settle in the shade, and I run my fingertips over the chipped stone rim of the plant pot next to me. A couple of the other pots hold wilting hydrangeas, but this one has only a low fuzz of weeds.
Vera’s gaze sweeps across the neglected lawn. “We need to sort this garden out.”
“Yeah. Um—Gran?”
She starts to pour the tea. “Hm?”
“Can I ask you about Laura?”
She freezes. Literally holds the teapot an inch above the table and stares at it without moving. I reach out and gently push the pot down until the china clunks on the wood, and then she shakes her head slightly and sits back in her chair, her expression distant.
“Laura who?” she says eventually.
“Laura Silveira, Edwin’s old au pair.”
“Darling, I’d really rather not.”
We sit facing the garden for a while, listening to the bees droning in the faded lavender. Vera keeps her chin high, one thumb stroking the rings on her other hand. I run my fingertips over the rough fabric of the sofa cushions, back and forth.
“I’m sorry, Gran, but I can’t spend my whole life not knowing about this stuff.”
She acknowledges this with a dip of her head. “Well, what is it you’d like to know?”
“What was she like?”
